The door did not open.
It unwrote itself.
The seams of the world pulled back like a forgotten paragraph, and beyond it, the Library of Maybe unfolded into a cathedral of aborted time.
There were no aisles.
No walls.
No end.
Shelves curved impossibly, spiraling into recursive loops, each one stacked with volumes that hummed with intention, not completion. The books here did not contain full stories. They were fragments, beginnings, tangled middles—moments waiting for meaning.
The air was heavy with anticipation.
Callen stepped inside.
The ink beneath her skin rippled, responding not to danger—but to recognition.
Each book vibrated slightly as she passed, as if trying to catch her attention.
Pick me.
I was you once.
I could be again.
The first book she touched was bound in red wax and twine. The title was smudged, unreadable—but her fingers knew it. As if it had once lived in her hands.
The pages inside were not written in ink.
They were etched in memory.
